Chapter 6 - The Siege of the West Wing
At 4:15 AM, the silence of the snowbound estate was shattered.
The double glass doors leading from the stone terrace into the grand conservatory exploded inward as four tactical breaching charges detonated simultaneously.
Blinding white light, smoke, and shattered crystal filled the vast room. Twelve men wearing dark winter camouflage and night-vision goggles surged through the breach, spreading out across the marble floor with lethal efficiency.
They moved with the disciplined precision of military veterans. Two men covered the main staircase leading to the upper gallery, while three others moved toward the private offices in the East Wing to secure the server rooms.
At the head of the assault force walked a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy fur-collared overcoat. He was in his late fifties, with short iron-gray hair, a thick beard, and cold, pale blue eyes that surveyed the luxurious estate with supreme ownership.
Viktor Reznik.
Reznik stepped over the shattered glass of the conservatory doors, pulling a heavy silver-plated revolver from his coat pocket. He looked around the soaring, portrait-lined great hall with an expression of deep, arrogant satisfaction.
"Nathan!" Reznik called out, his thick Russian accent echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. "The perimeter is clear! Where is the drive?!"
Silence answered him.
The only sound was the low crackle of the dying fire in the hearth and the distant howl of the wind rushing through the broken conservatory doors.
Reznik’s smile faded slightly. He gestured to his tactical commander, a scarred veteran named Pavel. "Find Cross. Check the cellar."
Pavel took two steps toward the western corridor—and then stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing at the top of the grand marble staircase, bathed in the soft amber light of the central chandelier, was Dominic Vale.
Dominic wore no helmet, no night-vision gear, and carried no rifle. He stood with his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his dark wool trousers, looking down at the twelve armed men in his home as if they were uninvited guests who had arrived ten minutes late for dinner.
"You're looking for Nathan," Dominic said, his clear voice carrying effortlessly across the vast room. "I’m afraid he’s unavailable, Viktor. He had an unfortunate accident in the cellar three hours ago."
Every weapon in the room instantly whipped upward, twelve red laser sight lines converging on Dominic’s chest and forehead.
Reznik didn't flinch. He looked up the staircase, his pale blue eyes narrowing into sharp, predatory slits. "Dominic Vale. You should have stayed in Atlantic City."
"And miss the pleasure of hosting you in the Hudson Valley?" Dominic replied smoothly, taking a slow step down the marble stairs. "I hear the winters in Montreal are brutal this time of year. I thought I’d offer you some local hospitality."
Reznik chuckled—a low, gravelly sound that contained no humor. "You are alone, Vale. My men control your perimeter. Your security team is dead or bribed. Nathan delivered your account keys to my server two hours ago. This house belongs to the Reznik syndicate now."
"Nathan lied to you, Viktor," Dominic said calmly, taking another step down. "Just like he lied to me for seventeen years."
Dominic reached into his jacket pocket. Twelve triggers tightened across the room.
Dominic didn't pull a gun. He pulled out a small, silver-plated lighter—the exact lighter that had been recovered from the wreckage of his first wife’s burned car in Newark seventeen years ago.
He flicked the wheel. A small, bright yellow flame danced against the dim light of the hall.
"Seventeen years ago, Nathan set a fire that destroyed my life," Dominic murmured, looking down at the flame. "He told me it was your family. He used your name to justify a war that cost fifty lives and made us both millions. But tonight, Viktor... the fire stops here."
Reznik frowned, a sudden, cold seed of doubt planting itself in his gut. "What are you talking about?"
Dominic closed the lighter with a sharp snap.
"Clear," Dominic said quietly into his collar mic.
Above the grand chandelier, high in the shadow-draped rafters of the great hall, six heavy steel drop-shutte doors slammed down simultaneously over the conservatory exit, the main entryways, and the iron corridors, sealing the twelve intruders inside a reinforced steel box.
Before Pavel could order his men to breach the shutters, the grand portrait of Dominic’s grandfather behind the marble staircase slid open.
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Daniel, Marcus, and eight heavy-assault operatives stepped into the upper gallery, their automatic weapons trained down on the trapped Russian strike force.
"Drop your weapons, Viktor," Dominic commanded, standing on the fifth step from the bottom, his eyes cold as death. "Or my house becomes your tomb."
